


Prepared to Go Down like Gentlemen

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Brother Feels, Card Shark Dean, First Kiss, First Time, Good Big Brother Dean, Good Little Brother Sam, Heavy Angst, Heavy Petting, Historical, I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, My First Destiel Fanfic, Neck Kissing, RMS Titanic, Teen Sam Winchester, Titanic AU, Titanic but the boat not the movie, Titanic!AU, Tragedy, historical!AU, literal sinking ships, slightly suicidal Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A historical AU set on the Titanic (but not a Titanic Movie AU).</p>
<p>
  <i>Something raced up Cas’ spine and he decided he didn’t care if it was hellfire. He pressed his leg back.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Dean smiled. “Would you like to get some air?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Here it was then, the line to be crossed. </i>
</p>
<p>Dean and Sam have been living in England nearly Sam's whole life. But when something happens and Dean gets a chance at two tickets back home-- a place Sam has been dying to return to--Dean can't help but accept. Everything is going more or less exactly according to plan until Dean meets first class passenger Castiel, also on his way back home after dropping out of divinity school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 10th

"Wake up, Sammy.” His brother. Of course it was his brother. Sam batted away the hand that was shaking his shoulders. Dean’s voice sounded thick, like maybe he’d had too much to drink. Again. 

“My name is _Sam_ ,” he grumbled. “And go away. I’m sleeping.” The hand disappeared and Sam buried himself back beneath the scratchy blanket. The weather had been mild, but the cheap room they were renting was drafty and it got cold at night.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Cold water splashed over Sam’s face and he sat up quickly, choking. 

“Damn it, Dean!” Sam loved his brother, but Dean could be a real bastard sometimes. Dean laughed and Sam got up to change into a dry shirt while Dean lit the oil lamp on the dresser. The light illuminated Dean’s face, highlighting new bruises, what was likely a broken nose, and a cut near his temple. It wasn’t unusual for Dean to come home a little worse for the wear, but this was especially bad. Sam pulled his brother’s face closer to the light so he could examine it. “What happened to you?” 

Dean grimaced, “I’m fine,” but let Sam look at him anyway. “Don’t get all steamed up. I just got on the wrong side of the wrong people.”

Sam scowled and pushed his brother into their one chair. “Did you deserve it?” He grabbed the pitcher of water—what was left of it—off the basin and fished around in Dean’s bag for a clean handkerchief, dabbing at the cut.

Sam hoped the bleeding would stop quickly, he didn’t have a proper bandage. He wished they had some ice, or that it was cold enough for snow to still be on the ground. Dean wouldn't show it, but he was going to be hurting in the morning.

“Got any hootch left?,” Sam asked, already pawing at Dean’s jacket pocket for the flask Sam knew his brother was always hiding in there. He found it, also mostly empty which earned Dean another scowl, and poured what was left on his cut. Dean grimaced.

“See? You are going to be such a fine doctor someday. I’m just trying to give you lots of practice.” Sam held the handkerchief to his brother’s head, perhaps a littler harder than necessary. 

“I don’t want to have to practice on you,” Sam snarled. He hated seeing his brother hurt, even like this when it wasn’t all that bad, if not ideal to wake up to. It scared him. He’d never told his brother—fifteen was too old for nightmares—but Sam woke up more nights than not in a cold sweat, afraid that this time Dean wouldn’t be able to crawl home. 

It was Sam’s worst fear.

Sam checked the handkerchief—still bleeding, but not much. “Put pressure on that, I’m going to look for Aspirin.”

Dean placed his hand over the cloth but grabbed Sam’s other wrist with is free hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, his voice soft. “I’m fine, Sam. I’m always fine and I always come home. I’m your bad penny.” Sam shook him off, roughly. 

“And you didn’t have to throw that water on me either! If you’d just told me you needed my help I’d have gotten up.” Sam realized he sounded like a grouser—and exactly like the child he spent so much time trying to convince Dean he most assuredly was not anymore--but he couldn’t help it. Dean bleeding always put him on edge. 

“Actually, that isn’t why I woke you.” Sam opened his mouth to object---something along the lines of _really? You were just going to go to bed with a bleeding head wound_ —but Dean held up his hand. “I need you to pack. We are getting out of here. And I have something for you.” Dean stood up and fished in his coat pockets and produced two pieces of paper. Sam snatched them from his hand and walked closer to the lamp.

 

_White Star Line_  
Royal and United States Mail Steamers  
TITANIC  
Southampton  
Third Class (Steerage) Passenger’s Contract 

 

Sam couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Dean, how much did you spend on these?” 

“What do you care? You’ve been dying to go home. You don’t even remember home, and that ain’t right. “

“But Dean… How--“ 

“Look. Something happened and we can’t stay here. It isn’t safe for us anymore. And if I have to move you, let’s go home. Just like you’ve been talking about for years.”

“For real? We are really going to go?” It was everything Sam wanted. They would go to America and Dean could get a real, honest job—maybe working with horses, like he loved—and Sam could finish up school and be a country doctor somewhere close by. 

Sam flung himself at Dean, just like he had his whole life, and Dean smiled, wrapping his arms around his brother, surprised at how tall he was getting. He’d probably be taller than Dean this time next year. 

“Now go pack, Kiddo. We can’t stick around here tonight if I’m to get on that boat with any of my remaining good looks.” 

Sam snorted and shook his head, but hauled the battered old suitcases out from under the bed. In better years, they’d belong to their parents. “Just tell me one thing Dean.” Dean tensed. He didn’t want to answer any more questions about what had happened that night. “Do we have to leave because you won or because you lost?”

Dean grinned at his brother, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. In the dim light and distracted by shoving clothes and books into the cases, Sam didn’t notice. “Come on, Sammy. Do I ever lose?”

Dean only ever lost things that mattered, never at cards. 

He shook it off. It didn’t matter. This was going to be a new life. A better life. 

***

Castiel Novak was a disappointment to his father. He’d disappointed his father when he’d refused to get engaged to the perfectly acceptable woman his family had picked, he’d disappointed him when crossed the sea to go to Oxford instead of staying home and going to Harvard, and he had most certainly disappointed him when he’d been kicked out of the divinity school. 

At least according to his brother. His father had died before he was born, so he’d never actually met the man. 

His dead brother, Castiel thought with a pang. Theirs had been a tumultuous relationship, but he’d been his brother and he’d tried to love Castiel, in his own way. At least, that was what Castiel tried to convince himself. 

But he’d died and Castiel had been kicked out of school and all the sudden found himself with nothing to do and nowhere to go but back to the old ghosts at home. 

He’d never wanted to come back to America. But it turns out even three-thousand miles wasn’t quite far away enough to escape one's destiny, so here he was, sitting on a four poster bed on the most ornate prison ship imaginable, getting closer and closer to the life he’d never wanted. 

Castiel poured himself another finger of whiskey—it was nice to drink again--shrugged on his tail coat and ran the comb through his hair. He didn’t know why he bothered, it absolutely never wanted to stay put. 

***

It was the nicest room Sam and Dean had slept in, in forever. Dean had managed to get them one of the very few two berth third class rooms, and it was sparkling. Heat and electric lighting, a sink with fresh water—and everything was brand new. 

Sam had claimed the top bunk immediately, and Dean had let him have it because there was almost nothing he wouldn’t do to keep that smile on his brother’s face. They’d put sheets on their beds and washed their faces and immediately gone exploring. 

Everything about the Titanic gleamed. Third class had two full dining rooms—with chairs not benches-- and Dean had overheard someone say there would be fresh bread at every meal. The general room was decorated with brightly colored posters of far away places and there was a smoking room with its own bar. 

It felt like a new start. Dean tried not to feel like he didn't deserve it. 

***  
Dinner was exactly as boring as Castiel had expected, but had the added hell of many perfectly suitable young women throwing themselves at him, which Castiel should have expected but had been out of society long enough to be surprised by.

The name Novak meant a lot more to these people than it ever had to Castiel. 

He’d managed to hold his tongue and he’d gotten out of most of the evening’s conversation with no more than the occasional nod, so all in all he thought he’d purported himself rather admirably. At the request of a former classmate of his younger brother’s—Thomson, Castiel had been lucky to remember his name--he’d gone with the other men to the smoking lounge. He’d been happy to escape the bachelorettes and he was finding that the more brandy he drank the more all around agreeable he felt. So when Thomson suggested they join in for a hand of poker with a few other gentlemen he knew, Castiel surprised himself and agreed. He hadn’t played poker in ages—there wasn’t much use for it in Divinity school—but he’d been pretty good at it before. 

***

“If I keep feeding you like this you are going to be taller than me by the time we get to New York.” Dean ruffled his brother’s hair and Sam grinned at him, happy and relaxed in a way Dean hadn’t seen him in forever.

Dean and Sam had never eaten so well. Not that they didn’t do just fine—there had been some lean times after their Dad had died, but Dean had never let Sam go hungry and things had gotten a lot better the last few years. 

But dinner on Titanic meant meat and gravy and potatoes and soup and bread and fresh fruit and biscuits and dessert.

“It kinda feels like a Christmas feast, doesn’t it?” 

Dean returned his brothers smile. “Sure does.”

“Now what do you want to do? I heard someone say there was going to be a party. People brought everything with them—some of them brought instruments.” Sam loved music—they both did, both of them were musically inclined, something they had inherited from their father. 

“Great! Maybe someone has got a fiddle you can borrow!” Sam had learned to play when they were squatting next to a middle-aged music tutor. Dean had traded her some manual labor to give Sam a few lessons and he’d picked it up right away. When they got to America, Dean planned to scrape enough together to buy him one of his own. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Violin, Dean. I play the violin.” 

“Wisenheimer. They are the same thing. ”

“So, you going to come watch me fiddle, then?” Sam looked at Dean hopefully.

“Can’t kiddo. Gotta work.” Sam’s face crumpled.

“We are on a boat Dean. In third class. With people like us. People with no money. Who exactly do you think you are going to hustle down here?” 

“Oh I’ve got a plan. I just need your help.” Sam scowled. 

Twenty minutes later, after much swearing—Dean was pretty sure Sam was trying to choke him on purpose—Dean was more cleaned up than Sam had ever seen him. The bowtie wasn’t quite right, neither of them had any real experience tying one, but Sam had suggested it just made him look drunk, which was good enough for Dean’s purposes. 

“Whadda ya’ think, Sammy?” Dean shot Sam his most dashing smile.

“You look like a footman.”

“Have a lot of experience with footmen, do you Lord Your Highness Winchester?” 

“How long did we live in England? That isn’t even how—“ Sam bit back a laugh as Dean performed a comical, elaborate low bow. “Never mind, it is perfect. You will fit right in up there.” Sam tugged Dean’s vest down. “Where did you even get this?”

“Where do you think, bonehead? I stole it,” Dean lied, plucking at something invisible on his cuff. “All right Sam Winchester, Arch High Dutchess of Lawrence, Kansas. You should go entertain the common people with your fancy fiddling, but first I need you to pick a lock for me.” Dean strode out of the room nose held high.

Sam hopped off Dean’s bunk and followed him. “You belong in the loony bin, you know that?”

Dean could pick a lock—he was the one who’d taught Sam how, after all—but Sam had taken to it like a fish in water and Dean wasn’t sure how much time they would have. Dean didn’t like Sam participating in his line of work—Dean was happy to go down for the crime to keep Sam’s record clean--but he’d taught his brother all his skills just in case. Dean meant it when he told Sam he’d always come back, but his Dad had always meant to come home, too. 

Sam opened the gate and Dean slipped through and started up the stairs.

“Hey Dean?” 

Dean stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“Remember we are on a boat, okay? There isn’t anywhere to run.”

Dean laughed and winked at his brother. “Don’t worry, I can swim!” Sam paled and Dean immediately felt bad. “I’m kidding. I’ll be fine. Bad penny! Go fiddle. Drink a beer.” 

“Be careful.” Sam warned. 

“Always am.” Which Sam knew wasn’t true, but made him feel better anyway. 

It only took Dean a few wrong turns and what felt like five dozen staircases to find his way into first class and from there a somewhat confused steward was happy to point him towards the first class smoking room. 

It was emmaculate, plush carpet, dark mahogany wood, beautifully painted windows and heated by a real fireplace. It spoke of wealth and privilege and luxury and a life Dean could barely even imagine. 

Den grabbed a snifter of brandy off a tray being carried by a waiter and scoped out the room, eyes settling on a small group of men about his age playing cards. Dean strode over, and extended his hand to the man dealing. “Dean Winchester. Do you have room for another gentleman?” 

***  
Castiel was losing money. Not a lot of money, well not a lot of money for Castiel, but enough that both his brother’s friend and the sandy haired green-eyed gentleman he was losing it to had _twice_ suggested he call it a night. 

He was perhaps not as good at cards as he had remembered. Certainly he was drunk. But neither of which were affecting his bottom line quite so much as the stranger's freckles and his jaw line and the completely distracting way he was licking his lips. Castiel would gladly part with all the money on him to continue to sit in the stranger’s company for a while longer. 

It had not exactly surprised Castiel when he had been kicked out of seminary school.

Castiel folded again—he wasn’t even sure what he had been holding-- and the stranger stood up and stretched. 

“All right gentlemen, I think we must call it a night or your wives won’t let you play with me again and then it will be a very long voyage indeed.” Everyone laughed and got up to say goodnights all around as the stranger scooped up his winnings from the center. Castiel’s wallet was not the only one he’d lightened. 

Castiel bade Thomson goodbye and stood up himself at the precise moment the entire ship lurched suddenly to the left. 

No the ship was fine—only Castiel had lurched. The stranger’s hand caught him by the bicep, before quickly letting go. “You okay, pal?” 

“Castiel.”

“Excuse me?”

Castiel tilted his head. “My name is Castiel. Not pal.”

“Ah.” The stranger smiled. “Dean Winchester. Nice to make your acquaintance, Cas. Can I call you Cas?” Cas just grinned back at him. Dean had a wonderful smile. “Sorry you played so poorly tonight. I tried to get you to quit.”

“You did,” Castiel agreed, nodding. He was significantly more drunk than he had intended to get. Breakfast was going to hurt. 

"Well, have a nice evening, Cas.” Dean turned to go, but Castiel couldn’t let him leave just yet. 

“Wait,” Castiel called and Dean turned. “Would you like to go out and smoke a cigarette with me? I—“ Castiel’s mind raced for an excuse—“I’ll probably fall overboard if I go alone.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “You can smoke in here with no danger of drowning at all, you know. And in here is warm.” 

“After all the money you took from me tonight, the least you could do is prevent my untimely death. It would be unsportsmanlike to deny me a chance to redeem myself.”

Dean threw his head back and laughed. “Cas, I think it would be unsportsmanlike to allow you to play me again at all. But you win, I’ll go.” Dean gestured for Castiel to lead the way, which he was delighted he managed to do without stumbling into a single table or chair. 

Outside was cold, colder than Castiel had been ready for, but the stars above were stunning, glittering like diamonds. Castiel offered Dean a cigarette from the case in his breast pocket—a gift from his brother, much like the matching lighter—before taking one of his own. He tried three times to get his cigarette to light before sighing and surrending the lighter to Dean. The cigarette hadn’t been the point anyway. 

Dean laughed and lit his own cigarette before trading it for Cas’s unlit one, which he also had no trouble lighting. Castiel leaned against the railing and inhaled, imagining he could taste the brandy from Dean’s mouth, too. 

Dean leaned against the railing as well and rolled his neck letting some of the tension fall from his shoulders. Poker could be fun, but tonight had been work and keeping up the first class pretense had been extra work on top of that. But he’d gotten away with it, no one had suspected and all he had to do now was get through one cigarette with this blue-eyed, messy haired stranger who had contributed so generously to the Winchester’s bank account this evening, and he’d be home free. 

“I hate ships,” Cas sighed, startling Dean out of his thoughts.

“Really? Why? Ships are great. You can go almost anywhere on ships.” Dean hadn’t given a lot of thought to ships in particular, but he loved the idea of a machine that could take you an eighth of the way around the world in a week. 

“Honestly, I just don’t trust them. I don’t completely understand what makes them go without sails, and,” Cas leaned over the railing farther than Dean was comfortable with, “I’d feel a lot better if you could see the bottom.” Dean tugged Cas back gently, by the collar of his jacket.

“Easy there. I thought you were kidding about going overboard.”

Castiel flipped over so he could face Dean, resting the backs of his arms against the railing instead. If he was a little close, well, it was cold and he didn’t have a proper coat on. He fished the cigarette case out of his pocked again and handed it to Dean. “Save me the embarrassment of failing again and light me another?” Dean laughed, shaking his head, and complied. Castiel hadn’t even really wanted the first, but he wanted to keep Dean here, wanted to keep watching the way Dean wrapped his lips around the cigarette. 

Castiel was such a disappointment to his father. 

“So, Dean, how did you get so good at cards?”

Dean grinned. “How did you get so terrible?”

Cas smiled. “It is an art, really.” Cas took another long drag from his cigarette. “Actually, I used to be quite good—at least, I thought so—but divinity school seems to have done a number on my card playing skills. And my tolerance.”

“Divinity school?” Dean looked shocked. “You don’t strike me as a priest.”

Cas waved away his astonishment. “Oh I’m not, believe me. They kicked me out.”

“That,” Dean said, lighting a second cigarette for himself, “that I believe. What did you do?“ A flicker of pain passed over Castiel’s face before he smoothed it out again.

“Doesn’t matter. I wasn’t a good fit.” Castiel was enjoying himself, but this entire foray onto the deck had been unwise—he certainly wouldn’t have suggested it sober-- and this conversation was steering a smidge too close to dangerous. “So why are you on the boat? You are certainly American. Going home?”

“I guess. I’m from Kansas, but I’ve been over here since I was four. And I’m traveling with my kid brother, Sam—he’s fifteen—who doesn’t even remember what America is like. He’s never even had a real Thanksgiving.” Dean wasn’t sure why he was telling Cas all this—he usually gave strangers completely fictional life stories, and he never ever talked about Sam. 

Cas tossed his head back and laughed, a rich full sound that warmed Dean. “Yes, I imagine they don’t take too kindly to Thanksgiving around here.”

“No kidding, right? But he is a real smart kid—he’s going to be a doctor one day—and I’m his big brother, I want to give him every chance I can. And he has been dying to go home, he grew up on all the stories our father used to tell of cowboys and Indians, so when I finally got the chance I just had to take it. I like making him happy, when I can.”

Cas smiled sadly. “Just once I’d like to be loved like that.” Dean felt something pull in his chest. “Sorry,” Castiel added quickly, misinterpreting. “Not to be maudlin... I just mean that wasn’t the relationship I had with my own older brother.” Castiel sighed. “I talk too much when I’m drunk. And you are especially easy to talk to.”

“I’m not,” Dean smiled wryly. “You are just drunk.”

That Castiel couldn't argue with. He pushed off from the railing, destabilizing his equilibrium once more. “All right, I’m going to bed before I tell you all my secrets. And also I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”

Instinctually Dean reached for Castiel’s hand to warm his fingers in his own—Sam always said Dean ran hot, he’d hated the nights they’d been stuck sharing a bed growing up—before he realized what the hell he was doing. _Dangerous. Stupid._ Dean quickly dropped his hand back to his side. He wanted to know Castiel’s secrets. 

Maybe he’d had had too much to drink, too. “Goodnight, Cas.”

“Nice talking to you Dean.”

Cas paused before opening the door, playing the words in his head before speaking, something he probably should have been doing more of this evening. “Perhaps we can have a rematch tomorrow night? Same time, same place?”

 _No. Absolutely not._ Dean had made enough tonight to buy them train tickets twice over once they reached New York, and he had enough in the lining of his suitcase to keep them fed and clothed for quite a while once they reached Kansas, so he should stay in steerage with Sam where he belonged and never risk coming across those sad blue eyes again. But Dean was nothing if not reckless with his own feelings. “Wouldn’t miss it.”


	2. April 11th

If was after midnight, but Sam was still awake when Dean snuck back into their room, buzzing about their bash—someone had brought a violin—and dying to hear what the rest of the boat was like. Dean had been hoping Sam would be asleep, wanted a few quiet moments to replay his conversation with Castiel, to try and figure out if he was just drunk and tired and still a little heartsore, imagining something that wasn’t there—but he couldn’t resist painting his brother a picture of the boat. 

“… and you should see this staircase Sam. This big glass dome on top and all these angels just everywhere.”

Sam smiled, and sighed. “This is going to be good for us, Dean. I can just feel it.”

Dean, still high on brandy and cigarettes and the idea of seeing Cas tomorrow, couldn’t help but agree. 

***

Castiel woke up still dressed for dinner but for his jacket which he’d clearly missed trying to drape over a chair and shoes which he’d flung across the room. It had been ages since he’d had a manservant with him and he’d gotten entirely used to taking care of himself, but he wish he’d rung the Bedroom Steward before he’d collapsed on to his bed. 

He pulled off his clothes and fought off a wave of nausea. At least if he was a little green around the gills today he could pretend he was just seasick.

His head pounded. Last night had been a disaster. He’d certainly embarrassed himself at cards and he’d completely debased himself and acted like a schoolgirl around Dean’s freckles. Castiel’s face burned. What Castiel was, well it wasn’t a thing people talked about in polite society and he only hoped that Dean hadn’t registered Castiel’s behavior as anything more than being overly drunk and friendly. 

He’d been on the ship one day and he was already doing damage to his father’s name. At least his brother wasn’t around to hear about it. 

Castiel poured himself a glass of water which was stale and dusty but tasted as good as an 1888 Chateau Larose. Castiel’s stomach turned again. 

He’d missed breakfast, but he wasn’t up to it anyway. He decide to take his hangover to the Turkish Baths.

***  
Dean and Sam did not miss breakfast. Dean had learned quickly not to skip a meal if there was one to be had, and this one promised ham and eggs and potatoes, more of that fresh bread, and all the coffee they could drink.

After breakfast, Dean went back to bed—he never let himself get enough sleep in their real life, only six hours in a row if he was real lucky, but being stuck in their berth didn’t appeal to Sam at all. 

As Sam had so emphatically pointed out over the entirety of their walk back to their bunk from breakfast, he was certainly old enough to take care of himself, especially on a boat where there were only so many places he could even go, so Dean had finally agreed to let him go off while Dean napped. Dean had never really intended not to let Sam go, but he liked to push his brother’s buttons every once in awhile to build his character. If Dean had rules in London it wasn’t because he thought Sam couldn’t take care of himself, it was just that Dean didn’t want him to have to, yet. 

Dean pulled his boots off and crawled back into his bunk. "Just keep your nose clean. We are on a boat okay?”

Sam grinned, all dimples, and Dean reached up and tussled his hair. “I swear. And uh, can I borrow your coat?”

Dean frowned. “What is wrong with your coat? Not warm enough? Do you need a new one?”

Sam shook his head. “No, my coat is fine. It is just, there is a pretty girl --”

“Say no more. Just be careful with it. Don’t let me sleep through dinner.”

There _was_ a pretty girl, heck there were lots of pretty girls on Titanic, but that wasn’t why Sam wanted the coat. Outside of Dean’s tails which Sam hadn’t known about before last night, the coat was the nicest piece of clothing they owned—Dean had taken it off a gentleman who hadn’t had as much money on him as he’d managed to lose—and Sam had a plan. 

***  
The Turkish Baths had not done much for Castiel’s headache, but at least he no longer had alcohol coming out of his pores, and he’d managed to keep down some tea and toast so he was feeling a little better, at least physically. There was nothing he could do about his shame. He was dreading running into Dean Winchester again. Even if he hadn’t picked up on Cas’ flirting, he’d certainly still have noticed how oddly Cas was behaving. Surely he’d want absolutely nothing to do with him at all. And that would hurt almost as badly as anything. 

Cas hated himself, sometimes. 

Castiel figured he could probably hide in his cabin for the rest of the trip, but being alone with his thoughts was worse than his fear, so he decided to grab his book and his coat and head out to the boat deck to read. Some fresh air to clear his head, and failing that he figured he could always just jump into the sea and be done with it. 

It wasn’t a completely unappealing idea. 

***  
The stairs had a lot more traffic during the day and Sam spent nearly an hour lurking before he had a chance to repeat his lock picking performance of the previous evening.

The rest of the boat was as luxurious as Dean had described it—though Dean had neglected to mention how much less like a boat it felt up here, he could barely feel the engines at all-- and Sam was not shy about poking his head into every room he passed. Twice he was nearly caught after opening doors he shouldn’t have but Sam was fast and there were a lot more places to run than he’d given the boat credit for. This was an adventure, Sam wasn’t going to miss out on anything. 

Sam wandered for hours. His favorite discovery was the swimming pool—who had ever imagined a boat big enough for a swimming pool?—but Dean’s staircase was nice, too. Sam liked that it had a piano, and his fingers itched to play it. That would have gotten him caught for sure.

Instead he wandered out to the boat deck, which was far less crowded than the one in steerage. Even the girls seemed prettier up here.

Sam plopped down into an empty deck chair with less grace than he probably ought to have exhibited given his surroundings--Dean kept accused him of acting like an overgrown puppy but mostly he was still just getting used to his new height-- and received a glare from the gentleman seated next to it.

“Sorry, Sir.“ _Sir, was that how people in first class addressed each other?_ “Just, ah, sea legs.” Sam winced, but the stranger smiled. 

“It’s all right, lad. I haven’t felt like quite myself today, either.” The stranger turned a page, and Sam leaned over to try and see what he was reading. The stranger glanced up.

“Can I help you?”

Sam blushed. He did not quite have his brother’s easy way with people. “Sorry, just wanted to see what you were reading. I love reading. You can go to all these places, you know? When I was little my brother used to,” Sam tried to make himself stop talking, he was going to get caught for sure and then Dean wouldn’t allow him out of his sight ever again “well, anyway, I love to read, too.”

The stranger gave him a quizzical look, but closed the book to show Sam the cover. “Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.”

“French?” Sam asked. “I’m trying to learn Latin.” _Just stop talking. Walk away, Sam._ Still, it was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t his brother every once in a while.

“Indeed. It is a about a monster who falls in love with someone beautiful and perfect but she’d never love him back.” The strangers face crumpled for a moment, so quickly Sam almost thought he’d dreamed it.

“A monster like Frankenstein?” Sam loved that book, Dean had given it to him for his thirteenth birthday and Sam must have read it thirty times.

“Ah, I liked that one, too. Sort of, though this one is human.”

“Sounds sad. Everyone deserves to be loved.” The stranger studied him for a moment. Sam thought he had kind eyes, if sad.

“You aren’t wrong. And it is, sad, that is. I picked it up because I love opera, but it wasn’t quite what I was expecting.”

“I’d love to see an opera! I love all music, really. I play the violin a little bit—though my brother calls it a fiddle just to tick me off—“ it suddenly occurred to Sam that someone who was in first class probably didn’t say “tick me off,” or have a brother who called a violin a fiddle, and he started to panic, wondered if Dean had always been good at conning people or if he’d once been as hopeless as Sam was now, “but I’m only good because I’ve got such long fingers, see?” Sam held them up and wiggled them, immediately regretting it.

The stranger cocked his head, smiled. “You are a very strange boy.” Sam’s face burned. “I don’t mean that badly,” the stranger rushed to correct, “it is nice to talk to someone who has a personality. I’ve talked to scores of other people on this boat and I’ve only found one other person who exhibited anything close to a personality at all.” Now it was the stranger’s turn to blush, and Sam didn’t know what to make of that. 

Sam hopped up from his chair. “Anyway, I should probably go wake up my brother for dinner. Enjoy your book, Mr…”

“Novak. But call me Cas, my friends do,” which Castiel hated himself for adding. Only one other person in the world had ever called him Cas.

“Nice to meet you, Cas. I’m Sam.” 

***  
Evening once again found Dean dressed like a penguin and Sam picking a lock to the gate. Sam hadn’t told Dean about his afternoon foray, instead opting for “met some people,” which Dean could interpret however he wanted, but he managed to pick the lock in half the time. 

“You are a quick study, Sam.” Which, Sam figured, was true. It wasn’t like three times was all that much more than two. 

“How long will you be gone?” Sam had enjoyed the day’s freedom and adventure, but he’d only seen Dean at meals and he wouldn’t mind spending some more time with him. 

“Midnight? But don’t wait up.” Sam scowled. “Tomorrow I’ll sleep less, promise, Kiddo.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Which Dean certainly had, a million times, but Sam didn’t call him on it. It wasn’t worth the fight—they were on this beautiful boat and they were going home. It was a fresh start.

 ***

Castiel almost didn’t go to the smoking room. He could have easily claimed to his dinner companions that he had had too much fun the evening before and needed to retire early—Thomson had spent most of dinner ribbing him for his terrible card playing so it wasn’t like that had gone unnoticed—but as much as he was dreading it, he also really wanted to see Dean. After all, once he saw him with eyes sober enough to recognize that there was nothing there, Dean certainly wasn’t flirting back, that wasn’t a thing gentleman did, he’d be over this stupid crush and everything could go back to normal. 

Not that normal was great, but normal came with numbness which at the moment seemed a million times better than this particular cocktail of shame and despair and fear and elation. 

Dean, on the other hand, had looked forward to it all evening. He’d spent the afternoon convincing himself that Castiel hadn’t mean anything with his “let’s have a cigarette” and “same time, same place” and all that standing too close—he’d been drunk and friendly, that was all—but it wasn’t like Dean had a lots of friends in his life either. He only had exactly one, in fact, and they shared a last name.

Dean wasn’t delusional. If Cas wanted to be anything, he’d reasoned, it was friends. But that was okay with Dean too. Better even. Friends wasn’t dangerous. 

Which didn’t save Dean from being wholly unprepared for the reception he got.

When Dean entered the smoking lounge, Cas was already there, speaking with the same man he’d been sitting next to the night before— _Thomas, maybe?_ Dean crossed towards them, pleased. Cas was here, as promised, after all. 

“Hey, Cas!” Castiel’s friend shot him a strange look, and Cas extended his hand with a cold, practiced grace. 

"Mr. Novack. Pleased to see you, Mr. Winchester.” Dean tried not to let the surprise show on his face. It felt a little bit like being punched.

Maybe not friends, then. Maybe _Mr. Novack_ hadn’t realized till this morning exactly how much Dean had taken from him the previous evening. It stung, but it was something Dean should have been prepared for. He mentally kicked himself. 

“Apologies, Mr. Novack.” Dean was nothing if not smooth. 

Cas’ friend also extended his hand. “Thomson Beveridge, we met last night.”

Thomson, not Thomas. “Of course, Mr. Beveridge. “ Dean shook his hand.

“So,” Thomson smiled, a thousand times warmer than Cas’ initial greeting, “ are you here to give Castiel a chance to win back his wallet?” Cas glared at his friend.

Dean laughed, trying to get back on script, trying not to let Castiel’s unexpected reaction throw him any more than it already had, “If I was smart, I wouldn’t play another hand all voyage, but Mr. Novack here made me promise I’d give him another go.” Cas turned his glare towards Dean, but remained quiet. 

Thomson quirked his eyebrows at Castiel. “Well, in my experience the Novacks _do_ hate to lose.”

Dean played more carefully tonight, in general working to keep the hands closer, though he let himself absolutely clobber Castiel every chance he got. If he wasn’t a friend then Cas was an easy mark. 

For his part, though not nearly as drunk as last night, Cas managed to play equally as poorly. Dean could see Castiel’s anger brimming under the surface and he knew he should stop, lose a few hands or maybe just call it a night, but he couldn’t help himself. _Mr. Novack, indeed._

Cas wasn’t surprised he was losing. He wasn’t even surprised he was losing worse tonight, sober, than he had the evening before. It was just, well Dean’s warm, familiar greeting had taken him by surprise. _Cas._ Castiel loved the way that sounded in Dean’s mouth. And though he hadn’t stopped thinking about Dean all day, somehow he’d still found himself completely taken off guard by the other man’s easy smile.

If he’d panicked, well, it just hadn’t been what he was expecting, that was all. Coldness, distance, yes, but instead there’d been something in Dean’s eyes that had completely disarmed him. He’d hadn’t been prepared for friendly. But this current frostiness, this is what he had expected. This was the ax he’d spent all day waiting for. 

Cas told himself he hated everything about Dean, from his poorly tied bowtie—honestly, had he done it himself?--to his pretty face, and the way he managed to drape himself in his chair as though it had been made for him. All the other men in the group were grinning, relaxed and laughing at Dean’s jokes. Cas tried to hate Dean’s laugh most of all. 

Cas drew a cigarette from his case and tried to light it, failed. Cas hated this stupid lighter, too. 

“Need some help?” Dean smirked, and Cas had the sudden urge to punch him. 

“I can manage on my own just fine, Mr. Winchester,” Cas responded coolly, finally getting it lit on the third try. 

Dean grinned but it was cold, shark-like, and resembled the real smiles he’d given Cas the evening before not at all. Cas suddenly thought he’d made a huge mistake.

Cas jumped up and tossed his cards down on the table. “I think I’m going to go get some air and retire. Till tomorrow, Gentleman.” He rushed out of the room and onto the deck because all the sudden he couldn’t breath. He made the wrong choice at every turn, didn’t he? 

Castiel hoped Dean would follow him, suddenly he wanted more than anything to apologize. For tonight, for last night, for tomorrow, for absolutely anything Dean wanted Cas to apologize for, if it would get him to favor Cas with just one more real smile. But of course Dean didn’t.

And why would he? He probably thought Cas belonged in a loony bin at this point. 

Cas thought that sometimes, too. It had certainly been suggested. 

He stared out at the ocean.


	3. April 12th

True to his word, Dean had spent the entire day with Sam. He was doing his best to keep a smile on his face, too, but the Castiel thing the night before had really gotten to him, wounded him more than it had any right to, and he knew Sam could tell something was off.

Still, they’d had fun together. Dean had borrowed a checkers set from someone and they’d spent most of the afternoon playing each other out on the poop deck, and when that started to get boring they’d switched to cards-- Dean always had cards--betting each other outlandish things: “a case of my finest whiskey,“ “my spare gold-plated fencing sword” or chores they would or wouldn’t have to do in their new life, “three days a week of unassisted cow milking, forever” or “a year of doing all the washing.” 

Playing cards could be fun, when it wasn’t work. Was always fun when it was with Sam. 

And instead of changing after dinner, Dean stayed downstairs and watched Sam fiddle and dance with a pretty girl. Sam looked happy, young. It was nearly enough to take Castiel off his mind completely. 

**  
Castiel, on the other hand, had had a perfectly miserable day from top to bottom. He felt terrible about how he’d treated Dean, sick to his stomach, and uncomfortable in his own skin. 

He’d slept fitfully, dreams of him and Dean in turn being trapped behind masks, Dean sometimes taking the part of Raoul, trapped in Castiel’s torture chamber. At one point, he’d gotten up and tossed the whole damn novel out his porthole but it hadn’t helped. 

Unhappy, Cas was used to. But this was different. Cas was whole unsettled, and he didn’t entirely understand why that should be. Ultimately he’d gotten what he expected right? And, really, he should have been grateful for the distance. At an arm’s length, faced with that sneer, well, those were perfect failsafes to keep Castiel from embarrassing himself. 

It was just, well, he’d like being with Dean. He’d like himself around Dean. For once, he hadn’t felt like he was playacting the part of Castiel Novack.

It had been – nice. Easy. 

Castiel had grown up being told he ruined everything he touched, so why shouldn’t his budding friendship with Dean be the same? Still, he hoped that, maybe, he could fix it. He’d spent the afternoon wandering the halls aimlessly, hoping to run into Dean—it was a big boat, but there were only so many places a person could be—but he hadn’t managed it. 

As he dressed for dinner, Cas wondered if perhaps Dean was purposely avoiding him. Cas wouldn’t have blamed him. Still, he hoped he’d see him tonight. He’d apologize and he hoped that at the very least the act of doing so would allow him to sleep better, even if Dean wasn’t receptive. 

**  
The party in the general room started to break up around ten—third night of seven and everyone was losing steam-- but Dean wasn’t quite ready to go to bed. Sam was trying to read, but Dean was just lying on his bunk playing with a coin, flipping it back and forth over his fingers.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam called from the top bunk.

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“If you don’t stop humming, I’m going to throw you overboard.”

Dean hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “I’d like to see you try!” Dean grabbed the pillow off his bed and beat his brother in the face with it a few times, and Sam tried to block it, laughing.

“You know, if you are really that bored you don’t have to stay in here. I’m sure there are still cards to be played upstairs. You know. If you want.” Dean had vowed to stay below decks tonight, he didn’t want to see _Mr. Novack_ any more that Mr. Novack wanted to see him, but he _was_ bored. And there _were_ cards to be played. Plus he was doing well, really well. At this rate, he’d be able to buy Sammy a violin the moment he got off the boat.

“You sure? I promised I’d hang out with you tonight, and I don’t mind. I promise I won’t hum.”

“I’m sure. Get outta here.”

Dean didn’t have to be told twice. He changed quickly—he was getting almost as good at dressing up as Sam was at picking the lock—and splashed some water on his face and hair. 

Sam didn’t even warn him to be careful as he slipped through the gates. 

**  
Castiel was just about to give up on Dean when he strode in. Cas had avoided cards this evening, but had positioned himself in a chair quite close to the door so he’d see Dean the moment he arrived. He wanted a chance to catch his eye, to smile and apologize before Dean got absorbed in the game. 

Like always, it went exactly not at all like he’d planned. Dean had surely seen him, Cas had made certain he was impossible to miss, but Dean’s eyes had swept right over Castiel’s chair as though it had been empty.

Which Castiel knew he deserved. 

But it still hurt.

Dean had seen Cas, of course he had--Cas was hard to miss-- but he’d learned his lesson. Dean was going to do his best to avoid him the whole rest of the trip. He was here to make money, not friends, and he was disappointed he’d let himself forget that for even a moment. 

The group of men playing cards tonight was different, which was good. People didn’t take too kindly to losing to the same man too many nights in a row. Dean was heading over to join him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean, wait.” 

Dean turned. “Can I help you, _Mr. Novack_?,” he let his voice drip with ice. 

Cas steeled himself, dropped his eyes to the floor. “I, uh, I wanted to apologize. For yesterday. I behaved very badly towards you. I don’t—I don’t know why I acted like that.” Dean felt himself thaw. This was more like the man he’d met initially. “I’d—I’d liked talking to you the night before,” Cas added quickly, “and I’d liked that you’d called me Cas.” _There._ He’d said what he’d wanted to say. “Anyway, I’m going to bed. I just wanted to apologize first.” Cas turned on his heel to leave. 

_I should let him,_ Dean thought.

“It’s okay, Cas. I get it.” Cas was quite sure Dean probably didn’t—Cas felt completely alone with his problems fairly often—but he smiled at the nickname anyway. 

Dean stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

“Friends,” Cas agreed, shaking it. 

“Great. In that case, any chance I could bum a cigarette? I left mine in my room.”

Cas handed one to Dean and took one himself, lighting it on the first try. He hadn’t been practicing, exactly—fine, maybe he had--but he’d smoked a few over the course of the previous evening's sleepless night. 

Dean gestured towards a small empty table on which sat nothing but a White Star Line ashtray. They both pulled out a chair, Cas choosing the one next to Dean instead of across from him. Which was interesting. 

“So,” Dean smirked, “I see you’ve decided against doubling down on your losses this evening. Good call.”

Cas smiled back. “I probably could hold my own with those guys. I really was good once. You just—“ Cas bit back the end of his sentence. _...distract me._

Was Cas blushing? _Cas was blushing._ Dean felt something buzz through his veins. Maybe not just drunk and friendly, then. 

For his part, Cas was quickly regretting his earlier apology. He wished he could just disappear.

“I know, I’m just such a card playing God.” Dean winked at Cas. 

Dean had _winked._  
At _Cas._

He had, right? Cas was terrible at reading social cues, a disaster really, as last night had so perfectly illustrated, but there weren’t a lot of ways to interpret a wink, correct? Gentleman hadn’t started just winking at each other while Cas had himself locked away at Oxford, had they? 

Cas was flabbergasted. 

And staring.

_How long had he been staring?_

“Um, right,” Cas pulled his eyes away, looked down at the cigarette mostly ash, “yes.”

“Glad to have that settled then,” Dean laughed, rising. “I’m going to get a drink, would you like one?”

“Aren’t you going to join the game?” Not that Cas wanted him to—Cas was relishing the attention, even if it was confusing. Overwhelming. 

“Maybe later.” Dean, unlike Cas, was great at reading people. He always had been, it was what made him so good at cards. It was the reason he and Sammy had been able to make anything of themselves at all after they’d lost their Dad. And if he’d picked up mixed signals the last few nights, well, he was much more certain of what he was reading in Cas now. 

Not that he hadn’t been wrong before—the first time he’d had his nose broken spoke to that. Then again, Dean didn’t really think he’d been wrong, exactly, that time either. He’d just miscalculated the other man’s level of self-awareness. Maybe self-acceptance. 

Which was always the risk of course. And there was probably, certainly, some level of that with Cas—it would explain the previous evening—but Cas had blushed. He’d _blushed._ Dean smiled to himself. He’d be happy to risk his nose again to explore that. 

Dean went stupid for a handsome face, always had. 

Dean walked towards a steward to get the drinks and Cas released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He thought perhaps his hands were shaking. What on earth was he doing? This was so wrong, so deviant. He should leave. He should get up and run out the door and avoid anyone and everyone until they made land. 

But he couldn’t. His life had seems so hopeless, and dull. And he’d spent a year and half trying to get right with God, and absolutely nothing had changed. He’d been so unhappy, so deeply unhappy—he’d barely been bothering to live his life. 

But with Dean he felt alive. And maybe that was something worth risking damnation for. 

Dean returned with two brandies, sprawling back into his chair so that his leg brushed Cas’ under the table.

It felt electric. Something raced up Cas’ spine and he decided he didn’t care if it was hellfire. He pressed his leg back.

Dean smiled. “Would you like to get some air?”

Here it was then, the line to be crossed. 

“Absolutely.”

***

Cas had expected Dean to be a good kisser, mouth like that and all—not that Cas had anything to compare it to—but he hadn’t been quite prepared for the reality of the thing. 

They’d left the smoking longue but there had been too many watching eyes around the railing they’d spent their first night leaning against, so Dean had pulled Cas farther down the boat, somewhere less populated.

Castiel’s wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. _Were their unspoken rules?, Methods of operation of which he was not aware?_ But it turned out his worry was for nothing because Dean pulled him into a shadow and kissed him—kissed him, just like that!—and Cas couldn’t concentrate on anything but kissing back, remaining up right. 

Dean pulled away. “Okay?”

“More than.” Cas was breathless. Which was the precise moment they heard footsteps and high-pitched giggling. They were not the only couple sneaking away, though they were probably the only couple likely to go to prison for it. “But not out here—there are too many people.”

Dean smiled. “Right. Okay. I’ve got a plan.” 

 

Dean picked the lock to the gymnasium with a lot of finesse—but Castiel barely had a moment to wonder how he acquired that skill before Dean had him up against the wall, pulling Castiel’s hips toward his, pushing back, lips on lips.

It wasn’t kissing like before—it was dirty and wanting. It was heaven, better than anything Cas had ever imagined he’d be allowed to have. Cas put his hand on Dean’s chest, pushing him away. 

“Dean, wait, stop a minute.” Dean let go, pulling back abruptly, liked he’d been burned.

“Cas—Jesus—sorry, I though—“ Dean ran a hand over his face. Cas grabbed his other hand, tugging him back. 

“No, it’s okay. I do. I do, want to, that is. With you. “ Cas stammered. “I just,” Cas glanced at the floor, feeling overwhelmingly shy, and lacking, “I’ve never done this before. Not with—well, not with anyone. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Dean’s face softened. “Ah, well if that’s all, I’m happy to show you.” 

“Go slow, okay?” Cas wasn’t frightened—well, Cas was barely frightened—he just didn’t ever want this to end. He thought maybe he was on the threshold of the best moment of his life, the memory he’d cherish in his deathbed, and he wanted to savor every detail. 

Dean grinned. “Of course, Cas.”

The room was dark, lit only from the lights of the deck filtering through the windows, and the equipment cast strange shadows. With the last part of his brain capable of thinking Cas wondered vaguely why he hadn’t just suggested they go back to his room. Then Dean began unbuttoning Cas’ vest, his shirt, and pressed his lips onto Cas’ collarbone nipping and sucking a necklace of bruises and Cas found himself completely unable to think about anything else at all. 

Dean ran his finger’s through Castiel’s hair, tugging gently. He worked his way back up Cas’ neck carefully—it wouldn’t do to leave bruises where they would show—and began nibbling on his ear, tracing the outside of the other with his index finger.

Cas moaned, low and filthy, and Dean was sure he’d never been this hard in his life. 

Dean stepped back, and tugged off Cas’ jacket, his vest, and relieved him of the rest of his shirt, and his undershirt beneath, stripping him naked to the waist. Cas was perfect, his body more muscular than Dean would have guessed.

Dean pulled Cas toward the mat proper first class gentleman would lie on tomorrow doing calisthenics. The image made Dean smile. He pushed Cas onto his back and began working his hands and lips and tongue over his torso, taking time to explore, mapping out what caused Cas to suck in a breath or moan. Dean thought he could dedicate the rest of his life to making Cas moan like that and it wouldn’t be a moment wasted.

Dean dipped his tongue between Cas’ skin and the waistband of his trousers, and Cas hissed, arched into it. 

“Never stop touching me,” Cas panted, hands in Dean’s hair. “And take off your clothes.”

“Bossy, aren’t we?” But Dean stood up, slowly removing everything down to his drawers. Cas pushed himself up to his elbows, watching, appreciatively. 

“Your beautiful,” Cas whispered. He’d maybe not exactly intended to say it out loud—but he’d seceded control of his brain to his body, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back. 

Dean ducked his head, suddenly shy. 

“You are though,” Cas added. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You are like a dream—this whole thing is like a dream.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Dean kneeled back down and began slowly, torturously, working Cas’ pants off, kissing each new inch of skin as it appeared, stopping to nip at his hipbones and lick at the hollows they formed. 

“Please. More.” Cas wreathed under Dean and Dean placed a hand on Cas’ chest, pinning him down.

“Patience is a virtue. Didn’t they teach that at God School?” Dean teased.

“To hell with virtue!” Cas panted. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

Cas kicked his pants and socks the rest of the way off, his erection tenting his drawers. Ever so slowly, Dean placed his hand on either side of Cas and slid on top, catching his lower lip between his and slotting next to Cas, two layers of thin fabric the only thing between them.

After the work up the friction was nearly too much for Cas, and he almost lost his mind, bucking up against Dean. He hadn’t known anything could feel so good. 

It was nearly too much for Dean, too. This beautiful man with the crazy hair moaning under him, Cas’ hands on his hips pulling Dean against him. The need in his sad blue eyes. 

Dean licked into Cas’ mouth, shifted his weight onto his side and elbow, to free a hand to place between them, dipping into Cas’ drawers and— _finally_ , thought Cas-- wrapping a hand around him, stroking him a few times very slowly. 

Cas was hard and dripping.

It was exquisite torture. 

Dean took his hand away, much to Cas’ dismay, and freed them both of their final vestiges of clothing. 

Dean took Cas in his mouth, licking him wet, and spit in his hand and work it around until he was slick too. 

Cas was moaning, nearly incomprehensible. 

Dean draped himself back over Cas, finding his mouth, jerking them both between him, together. 

Cas found the rhythm instantly, thrusting into Dean’s hand, hips bucking, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. He was completely out of his head. 

It was gorgeous. 

Cas arched his back and came, and Dean followed a few stroked behind, shuddering. Cas wrapped his arms around Dean, pulling him close, and Dean allowed himself to surrender, catching his breath against his neck, a leg draped over, Cas’ hand carding through Dean’s hair. 

Cas moved one arm behind his head, keeping the other around Dean’s shoulders. Dean wasn’t much for holding after sex but this, this was nice. 

He could feel Cas’ heart slowing.

“That was killer,” Cas breathed. Dean smiled, even though Cas couldn’t see it. He’d thought so too.

“I’ve got lots more tricks, if you’d like to see them.” 

Cas laughed into Dean’s hair. “Oh I most assuredly do! My room or yours?” 

Dean brushed his lips across Cas’, all lust from before replaced with a tenderness, a side of himself Dean had never shown anyone but his brother, and sat up slowly, reaching for his pants. 

“I can’t,--“ Cas’ face fell, “not that I don’t want to! I do. It’s just, I’m sure it’s late and if Sammy wakes up and I’m not there—“

“Right, of course,” Cas recovered, sitting up, drawing his knees to his chest, smile not quite as bright. _Really_ , Cas thought, _what had he been expecting?_

Dean abandoned trying to figure out which shirt was his and dropped to one knee, eyelevel with Castiel. “I mean it Cas. I do want to.” 

Cas wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I mean, it is okay if you don’t. If this was just tonight, well, it was enough for a lifetime. You don’t owe me anything. I get that.”

Dean pulled Cas’ chin up, drawing his eyes into his. Cas had beautiful eyes. “I want to, I promise. No games. But tomorrow, okay?”

Cas smiled. “Okay. Maybe I’ll see you at breakfast? Your brother too, I’d like to meet him.”

Dean faltered; he’d meant it when he promised Cas no games, but he’d momentarily forgotten they’d met under false pretenses. He’d tell Cas, he swore he would, but this was just the completely wrong moment. “No, we have, a thing, an all day thing,—I promised him—but after dinner, you and me? I’ll meet you in the lounge. Then maybe instead of cards you could suggest we go have a nightcap in your room?” Dean winked at Cas and it nearly undid him. 

Cas grinned. “A nightcap in my room it is!”

Dean rose to his feet, and then helped Cas up and back into some semblance of proper dress. Anyone who saw Cas’ hair would have no doubt what he’d been up to tonight, but Dean supposed there wasn’t anything to be done about that. Besides, Dean wanted to leave Cas publically marked, somehow, even if everyone who saw it would assume it had been some wild young lady and not Dean Winchester who’d been undoing Cas in some dark corner of the ship this evening. 

At the door Dean paused, didn’t open it. “This was—this was fun tonight.” 

Cas blushed again, which was nearly enough to make Dean undo all the work he’d just put into dressing him. “I, uh, I thought so too,” Cas stammered, pushing his hands into his pockets. 

Dean kissed him, quick and hard so as not to try his willpower too much, and pushed Cas towards the door. 

“I could get used to you, Mr. Novack,” Dean grinned, wide and lousy.

“The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Winchester,” Cas laughed, and turned to go. 

Dean grabbed his hand, gave it a squeeze. “Night Cas. Dream about me.”

Cas squeezed back, let go. “I can’t imagine I’ll ever dream about anything else ever again.”

Cas was pretty sure his feet didn’t touch the ground the entire walk to his room.


	4. April 13th

Sam hadn’t seen Dean in such a good mood in ages. Maybe ever. He’d seen Dean come home after big wins before but it didn’t touch this. Dean’s whole face looked different, lighter somehow. Sam wasn’t sure what had caused it, but he hoped it never went away.

Dean deserved it, whatever it was.

Sam’s curiosity was killing him, but he decided not to pry. Dean would tell him when he was ready and in the meantime Sam was content just to enjoy the ride.

After breakfast Dean had arranged a rather massive game of hunt the slipper, challenged Sam to several rounds of hide-and-go-seek, a game they hadn’t played in years, and had somehow managed to arrange it so the pretty girl Sam had danced with the night before, Emily, ended up eating lunch at their table. Dean had spent the entire meal distracting Emily’s mother and had done such a good job that Emily and Sam had been permitted to stroll around the decks basically unaccompanied. 

She’d given Sam a kiss on the cheek, so Sam was flying pretty high as well. 

As a thank you, Sam had spent the hour before dinner reading to Dean out loud from _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ , another one of Sam’s favorites. Dean didn’t care what Sam read from, he just liked half dozing to the sound of his voice. 

Neither had felt half so content in ages. 

**  
Despite what had been a truly excellent day, Dean was pretty sure Sam was going to stab him with his fork pretty soon if he didn’t stop taking his watch out of his pocket and checking it over and over again. But Dean couldn’t help it, he was excited to see Castiel, excited about the excellent evening he had ahead of him. 

It was new and elicit and exciting and on top of all that there was just something about being around Castiel that soothed Dean. And that gave everything a special sort of sheen.

“You almost done, Sammy?” 

Sam looked down. Nearly half of his plate was still full. “Uh, almost I guess?” 

“Mind if I leave you to it? I want to take a bath and I figure there wouldn’t be a line while everyone is eating and all.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure he could ever remember a time Dean had cared anything at all about bathing. “Sure. Right. Um, no, I don’t mind.”

Dean bolted up from the table. “Great, thanks kiddo!” He rumpled Sam’s hair and left. 

It was all very strange, Sam thought. But at least it was the good kind of strange. 

**

Castiel had taken rather a lot of care with his hygiene that afternoon as well, taking great pains to give himself an especially close shave. He’d thought about really going all in and going to the barber shop on c-deck, but he sort of liked his hair a little long, even if it wasn’t totally fashionable. 

He _had_ gotten his shoes shined. It wasn’t that he thought Dean would care—probably Dean wouldn’t even notice, but he liked the idea of treating the evening like it was something special. It was something special to Cas. And he’d spent all of his childhood and most of his adult life dressing up for strangers whose names he could barely remember. He liked the idea of finally doing it for someone whose opinions he actually cared about. 

He’d asked the bedroom steward to bring up some ice shortly before dinner ended and had told him he wouldn’t need him after that, saying he planned to be up late catching up on some work with a colleague and they wouldn’t want to be disturbed. 

Before he’d headed down to dinner he’d spread some papers around to really sell it. 

Dinner seemed to drag on for absolutely ever, and Cas felt like he’d aged five years before it was finally time to retire to the smoking room. He hoped that whatever Sam and Dean were doing they were having more fun.

As per usual, Castiel got there before Dean—frankly, tonight Cas had gotten there before nearly everyone—and Cas sat down at the table they’d shared the previous evening, toying with a cigarette and vowing not to watch the clock or glance too often at the door. 

It was a testament to Castiel’s willpower that this meant Dean actually managed to sneak up on him. 

“Ahh, if it isn’t my good friend Mr. Novack!” Cas nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Dean! You startled me.” Cas stood up and offered his hand in greeting, all to aware how public the space was.

“You weren’t expecting me?” Dean asked, giving Cas’ had and extra squeeze.

“Of course I was. Shall we retire to my room for a nightcap and to go look at those papers we’d discussed?” Cas asked a little too woodenly, too loudly. Dean grinned. Cas wouldn’t have lasted a day in Dean’s line of work.

“Absolutely. Lead the way.”

**

They didn’t talk much on the walk to Cas’ room. There were too many other people around, and anyway, Cas suddenly felt very shy. Yesterday morning he’d never been kissed, and tonight—well, Cas’ path to corruption had been very short indeed. 

“Well, here we are.” Cas swung his door open. _Here we are._

Dean whistled. “Nice digs, Cas.”

Cas titled his head. “Why, what do yours look like?”

 _Right. He still hadn’t come clean. But he would. Later._ “Oh, um, messier. What with sharing with Sam and all.”

Cas stood awkwardly by the door. “So, um, would you like a drink? I’ve got a few bottles of wine with me. And some scotch. Or I could call for something else…”

“Sure, a drink would be nice. Scotch.”

Castiel didn’t just have some Scotch, Castiel had the best Scotch Dean had ever tasted. Not that Castiel seemed to have noticed, he swallowed his in one gulp and then poured himself another.

Dean leaned against a chair, watching. “Easy there, tiger.”

“Sorry,” Castiel crossed towards Dean, “I’m just nervous.” Really, he thought there was a distinct possibility he was going to throw up. He’d never quite had so much to lose. 

Dean smiled kindly, sat his drink down and pulled Cas’ out of his hands too, tugging him toward him. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” 

Cas smiled. “Oh, but please do.” Cas leaned into Dean, shut his eyes, and kissed him.

It was fireworks, like the evening before, maybe better now that they were a little more used to each other. Cas pulled Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and sucked on it and Dean breathed a moan into Cas’ mouth. 

Cas deepened the kiss—he felt like he could live a lifetime only on the air in Dean’s lungs—hungry and needy. He tugged at Dean’s coat, shrugged his own off and let it fall into a ball on the floor. He untucked Dean’s shirt and ran his hands up Dean’s chest, tracing the lines of muscle, running a thumb over Dean’s nipples. He nudged Dean’s legs father apart so that he could stand between them and that, that was even better. They were both hard, straining against their trousers. Castiel pushed against him. 

Dean was running his hands over Cas’ back, his ass, whispering in his ear, dirty words and nothings and panting “that’s right, angel.” Cas tore at his clothes, removing Dean’s only marginally more gently—why did men have to wear so many damn layers? Cas loved Dean’s thighs, hadn’t taken enough time the night before the appreciate them fully, so he dropped to his knees, and ran his hand up and down them, using the other to try and keep Dean still against the chair. Dean fisted his hands into Cas’ hair, couldn’t stand it. 

“Baby. Baby. Cas—“ Dean gasped, “I love that, I do, but I’m going to fall and hurt us both if you keep making me stand.”

 _Right, of course._ Cas jumped up, pulled Dean towards the bed. “Sorry!” He pushed him down and resumed, drawing circle with his tongue, creeping ever closer. Dean was keeping a full running commentary, all “Please, Cas” and “Damn it, please” and “oh god, baby” and when he finally took Dean in his mouth he was positively dripping.

Cas wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, but he could approximate based on the ways he liked to touch himself and from the lack of coherence in Dean’s monologue, he seemed to be guessing mostly right. Cas licked Dean, swirling his tongue around the head, and worked his way around, and down, fingers and hand tracing behind him. 

He could feel Dean’s thighs tensing, his finger clenching and it was such a rush, knowing he could break Dean completely apart like this. 

At first he was sad when Dean pushed his head away—he’d wanted to finish him, but Dean flipped him on his back and held him down.

“Not yet. Maybe later” Dean pinned Cas hands loosely to the bed, over his head, and kissed him deep and bruising, licking the taste of himself out of Cas’ mouth. “Something else, first. Have you got any hair oil or Vaseline or something?” 

Cas pointed towards the washstand, and pouted when Dean got off him to retrieve it. “Come back.”

Dean held up the jar. “You or me?”

Cas wasn’t entirely sure what Dean was asking—he’d heard rumors, of course, but it wasn’t something people actually talked about in polite society—but he was up for absolutely anything Dean wanted to show him. 

“Me.” 

Dean grinned. “All right then.”

Dean climbed back on the bed, nudging his way between Castiel’s legs. “if you change your mind, or you don’t want to, or anything at all, you tell me okay?”

Cas nodded. He knew there was no universe in which he would want whatever was going to happen next to stop.

Dean stared at him. “Promise me, Cas. I mean it.”

Cas stared back. “I promise, Dean. Now stop talking.”

Castiel was hard, achingly so, but Dean stopped to pay him some attention anyway, while he covered is finger in Vaseline. Dean pushed a finger inside Cas, slow and careful and perhaps altogether too slow and too careful for Castiel’s current state of arousal. Dean worked his finger in and out, loosening up Cas’s muscles. 

“Is that okay? Can I use another one?” 

It was a strange sensation, but far beyond okay. “Yes, more.” 

Dean slipped another inside, this time finding a bundle of nerves and making Cas’ toes curl, his eyes nearly rolling up into the back of his head. He tasted blood—Cas thought maybe he’d bitten his lip. Was this what he had been missing? 

Dean scissor his fingers, loving Cas’ face, the absolutely filthy, needy sounds he was making. Dean pulled his fingers out, and Cas whined “No please” until Dean hushed him with a kiss. 

Dean sucked Cas neck, hard enough to bruise but low enough so no one else would see and Cas’ hands scrabbled at his back, begging. “Please, Dean. More.”

“You want me now?” Dean growled into Cas’ ear. Cas nodded an enthusiastic yes. God, Dean wanted him too. “It might, uh, feel better for your first time if you flipped over.”

“No," Cas panted. "I want to see you.” 

Which was enough for Dean. He ran vasaline covered fingers over himself and then eased into Cas, not moving—though it took quite a concerted effort to do, Cas felt so damn good—until he felt Cas relax again. 

Once Dean started moving, rubbing over that spot, Cas came complete apart, waves of pleasure building and he barely even needed Dean’s hand on him to come, hard and shaking, fingers entwined in the sheets and raking across Dean’s back. Dean had meant to work him through it, nice and slow, but Cas gasping and tensing under him was no match for Dean’s better intentions and it pushed him right over the edge, and Cas loved the way that felt, too. 

Dean pulled out and collapsed on top of Cas, feeling their hearts pounding nearly in tandem, sweat cooling on their skin. 

“Jesus, Dean. Promise me we never have to leave this room. Promise me we never have to stop doing that.” 

Dean laughed, and rolled next to Cas. “We’d have to call in for our meals and it might scare off the stewards.”

Cas pretended to pout. “To hell with stewards!’ 

Dean pushed up to an elbow and kissed him. “Besides, you have to at least give us some time to recover.” 

“I suppose.” Cas forced himself to get up and went to fetch a wet cloth to wipe them down with. “What do you suppose we ought to do while we recover?

Dean grinned. “I could always completely embarrass you at cards again.”

Cas scowled. “Pass.”

“I don’t know, someone told me once that you were quite good.” Cas tossed a shirt at him, which Dean caught easily. “How about we just talk then?” which was not a phrase Dean had ever heard himself use before. 

Castiel smiled. “All right, tell me more about your brother. Your family.”

“There ain’t much to tell, outside of me Sam.” Or much that Dean could really tell him without giving himself away. Which he would, he vowed. _Tomorrow._ “Our Mom died when he was just a baby, and our Dad couldn’t exactly handle it, so he moved us across the pond. Then he died when I was about twelve and it’s been just Sammy and me ever since.” There, everything he’d said was completely true, if maybe some details were missing. Their Dad hadn’t so much died as he'd simply just never come home after getting caught hustling cards. It had been two weeks before Dean had learned what had happened to him, that he’d died alone, bleeding, in a gutter. He hadn’t exactly told Sammy all those details either. 

Cas felt his heart break for Dean. "Twelve. Jesus. You were just a kid yourself. Who took care of you?"

No one had ever asked that of Dean before. "I did okay-- I mean I had Sammy," he added not unaware of how defensive that sounded. But he didn't want to have to be defensive around Cas. "It wasn't always easy," which would have been obvious to anybody but were not, in fact, words Dean had ever actually said out loud before "but we are a good team." Dean smiled. “You?’

Cas pulled his knees up to his chest. “I’ve got a pretty big extended family, but my parents are dead too, feels like they almost always have been. Though I’m sure they are both very pleased to have escaped watching my many failures.” Dean frowned at him. “And my oldest brother raised me, too, but I suppose he didn’t have quite your finesse at the task. He left it mostly to tutors. He’s gone now too.”

“You don’t seem like much of a failure to me, Cas.” Cas brushed the words off. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Dean squeezed Cas shoulder but let it go, for which Cas was grateful. “So, uh, does your brother know? About you, I mean?”

Dean thought about it. The truth was Sam didn’t know about Dean. Or maybe he did. Sam was an intuitive kid-- he’d stopped asking Dean if he had his eyes on any girls ages ago, and sometimes he gave Dean these looks that could certainly be interpreted to mean that Sam knew more than he was letting on-- but Dean hadn’t ever set him down and spelled it out for him. It wasn’t that Dean was worried it would change the way Sam saw him, Sam looked up to Dean and just sort of accepted him at face value, even when Dean was sure he didn’t deserve it—but Dean wasn’t great about talking about his feelings. 

“He doesn’t. At least I haven’t told him," Dean corrected, "but I kinda don’t think he’d mind if I did.”

Dean didn’t imagine their father would have been quite so accepting but people who were careless enough to get themselves stabbed and leave two kids to fend for themselves in a foreign country, well they didn’t get a vote. 

Cas cocked his head. “Are you ever going to tell him?” 

_Yes,_ thought Dean. _Tomorrow. Everyone was getting the truth tomorrow._ “Yeah, I think I will. Why? Did you ever tell anyone?”

“Only once. It didn’t go well.” It was why Cas had been asked to leave seminary school in fact. 

Dean studied him, frowned. “I’ve had my share of didn’t go well, too.” Dean gestured to the almost healed cut near his hairline. Cas kissed it and Dean smiled at him fondly. “But I’m glad I didn’t learn my lesson.” 

“Me too.” 

Dean decided to take a chance. “I like you Cas. I mean I like this,” Dean gestured at the bedclothes all in disarray, “but I like you, too. Separately. That hasn't always been the case for me.” Dean scratched his head. "Basically never, really."

It was quite exactly more than Cas had ever hoped to hear, from anyone, ever, and his skin buzzed with it. It was nearly everything he hadn’t fully realized his life was missing. “I like you, too. Separately.” Cas leaned against Dean’s shoulder and Dean put his arm around him and for a moment, Cas very nearly dared to imagine a future for himself that was happy. A future with Dean in it. 

Cas had never really gotten so far as to imagined himself happy in a real concrete way, before. The papers had all called Titanic “the ship of dreams,” and unlike most things Titanic was turning out be exactly as advertised. 

Cas sighed happily, leaning into Dean and it felt right to Dean to have Cas by his side. He wondered if he could figure out away to keep him in his life, after they landed. He hoped so. Dean kissed Cas temple and it sent warmth down Castiel’s spine. 

Cas had never fit in anywhere quite so well as he fit in Dean’s arms. Cas couldn’t help but think that nothing about this felt wrong, nothing about this felt depraved. If there was a heavenly father up there who disapproved, well to hell with him. Cas had no idea what would happen to his soul, but he was going to live his life the best he could and that was just going to have to be good enough for everybody. 

Cas pulled Dean in for a better kiss. Dean wasn’t quite fully recovered, but he didn’t think it would take much of Cas’ moaning to get him there.

He was right. 

And Cas, as it turned out, was a very quick study indeed. 

***

Dean had gotten back to the room later than he’d intended and Sam had been quite prepared to give him an earful about it, but he’d come into the room in an even better mood than he’d left it, nearly floating, and Sam hadn’t had it in him to bring him down. 

He’d seen Dean in a thousand different moods, but he’d never seen him so happy. He’d never even dared to hope it, would have sworn up and down it was something Dean would never have allowed himself, and he was absolutely elated to be wrong. Whatever it was, Sam was glad to see Dean doing something for himself for once. He wished he'd do it more often.

Sam fell back asleep thinking: this trip, this boat, it had all been absolutely the right choice.


	5. April 14th

It wasn’t even 10am and Dean had already checked the time at least thirty times, as though perhaps time would magically jump from morning to evening if he just wished hard enough. 

Sam was on his bed reading, pretending not to notice.

“Hey, I might be out real late again tonight, okay?”

Sam flipped a page, not looking up. “It’s fine. I don’t worry about you as much here.”

“Good. But I don’t need you worrying about me at all, ever, you hear?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond. 

Dean checked the pocket watch again. 9:57am. _Well, no time like the present._ “Er, Sammy, there is something, uh, kind of important that I feel like I ought to tell you.”

Sam put down his book, looked up. “Is it about why we had to leave London?’

“No. I mean, only kinda. Yes, I guess?” Sam just quirked an eyebrow, waiting. 

Dean was stalling. He looked down at his boots, back up at Sam. Out with it then.

“I, uh, I don’t like girls. I mean, they are fine. As people. That is, I have nothing against them but—“

Sam cut him off, another eye roll. “Yeah, I know.”

“No, see, Sam I don’t think you do.” Dean fiddled with the watch. “What I’m trying to say is—“

Sam hopped off his bunk, put his hands on his brother’s shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. “Dean. I get it. I _know_. It just doesn’t matter to me.”

It was exactly the reaction Dean had thought he would get—Sam was a good kid, and so kind---but he still wasn’t completely prepared. He felt the back of his eyes prickle, but there was absolutely no way that was going to happen. He swallowed, hard, shook off Sam’s hands. _Well, Sam knew._

“What tipped you off then?”

Sam grinned, big. “Albert. You could absolutely not have been more obvious around Albert if you’d worn a sign around your neck. And I’d never seen you look at a girl like that. I just wasn’t blind, I guess.”

“Who the hell is—oh.” Albert had been older, he’d worked at the bakery around the corner four or five flats ago. Albert had been gorgeous, tall and muscular. 

Dean had watched him lift sacks of flour one afternoon, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and it had made quite an impression on him. He hadn’t realized he’d been quite so obvious about it, however. 

“Albert, huh? You know, I’d forgotten his name.” 

Sam moved back to his bunk. “But probably not his arms.”

“Suck lemons, Sam.” 

Sam smiled, and opened his book. “Good talk. Let’s have these more often. I’ve got a revelation about water and wetness that will knock your socks off.”

And that was that. Dean could only hope his confession to Cas would go half as well. 

**  
Dean never got a chance to find out. He’d rushed through dinner and dressed—he suspected Sam had had no problem putting together Dean’s good mood, anxiousness to get upstairs and his recent confession, but he’d been kind enough to spare Dean any real teasing outside of a smirk. 

Dean and Cas reached the lounge at nearly the same time and were just about to retire for Cas’ room for their “nightcap,” when a tall, fine-boned man in his thirties stepped into their path. 

“Well if it isn’t our dear friend John Campbell! ” A chill ran down Dean’s spine. _No no no, Not now. Not before he’d had a chance to come clean to Cas on his own terms._

“Come on Cas, let’s get out of here.” Dean tugged at Cas’ sleeve and tried to maneuver around the man, the very familiar man, but Cas had frozen. 

“You know, when I heard there was a just dynamite card player up in here no one seemed to have met before this evening I thought to myself, _hm, sounds like a man I know._ And just my luck to run into you—I was so disappointed you weren’t around last night. ”

Cas turned to Dean. “Do you know this man, Dean?”

“Dean, eh? I suspect you will find that isn’t his name at all. John Campbell certainly wasn’t.”

Cas felt like he’d been punched. His eye flashed at Dean, bright with pain, bewilderment. “What does he mean by that?”

Before Dean could respond, Charles—his brain had finally provided him with a name—cut him off. “I met young Mr. Campbell here at a dinner party a few months ago hosted by a mutual friend who seemed to have grown very _close_ ,” a sneer, Cas wouldn’t mistake what Charles was implying, “to Mr. Campbell.”

It was true. Dean hadn’t wanted to go, but George had begged him, and Dean had eventually given in. It hadn’t been much more than fulfilling mutual needs, certainly not love, but a little fondness perhaps, and George had wanted Dean to go more to make another ex-paramour in town for the evening—not Charles, Charles was George’s much despised cousin or bother-in-law, some such family relation--jealous.

George had dressed him—money was no object to George—and he’d given Dean the clothes he was wearing now (which had been part of the reason he’d agreed, he’d figured a set of tails could come in very handy and he hadn’t been wrong) and the dinner had been exquisite and the ex-paramour had spent the entirety glaring daggers at Dean. At “John.” He’d met George in a similar manner to how he’d met Cas, but he’d never given George his real name. Or a single true fact about his life, up to and including anything about Sam. George had had a better understanding of Dean’s financial position, however. 

After dinner there had been cards and Dean had lined his wallet—no doubt with some of Charles’ money—while George had flirted with the other man and everyone had been happy. 

George had been nice, they’d had a lot of fun in bed, and Dean probably would have continued their illicit meetings and maybe even attending the occasional dinner if it hadn’t ended badly when they’d been discovered by George’s brother. 

They’d both taken some punches before Dean had managed to get to the knife he always kept stashed in his boot for just such emergencies. The brother had threatened to hunt down and kill Dean and he’d seemed both determined and angry enough to do it. So they’d dressed and George had stuffed a fistful of pounds into Dean’s hand and suggested he disappear for awhile. 

His cover was blown and it wouldn’t take the brother asking too many questions to figure out where “John Campbell” lived—Dean had let himself get lazy about his alias-- and that would have put Sam in danger. So Dean had bought tickets and gone home and told Sam to pack. He’d been well done with London, anyway.

But he wasn’t entirely sure how to explain all that to Cas, certainly not in a room full of people who were starting to stare. Dean scrubbed his hands over his face.  
“Cas I can explain, and I will, I promise. Can we just go somewhere else?”

“Known Mr. Campbell long, have you, _Cas_?” Dean hated the way that sounded in the other man’s mouth. Dean clenched his fist. “I’d bet dollars to doughnuts you’d never seen him in your life before encountering him over a card table in this very room. Seems to be his usual method,” Charles continued, taking a sip of his brandy, clearly enjoying the gutted look on Cas’ face. “Well, I did some digging into Mr. Campbell after we met, and let me tell you, he certainly isn’t who he says he is. He isn’t a gentleman at all, rather he is a gutter rat dressed in stolen clothes and groomed to look like a lap dog, intent on getting every last penny out of us.” 

“That isn’t true, Cas!” Cas was holding himself stiffly, wasn’t making eye contact with Dean. 

“Isn’t it? Ever seen him at any meal Cas? Or any part of this boat where there wasn’t some money to be made off unsuspecting gentleman like yourself?” Which was true, and Dean could nearly see that registering in Cas’ head.

Cas straightened, pulled his shoulders back and stepped between the stranger and Dean. This man was tall, but Cas easily had thirty pounds of muscle on him, and Cas had learned the hard way that he could hold his own if he had to. “I think you are mistaking, Sir.” Cas was nearly growling, his voice all menace and warning. “And I’d advise you to apologize to my dear friend here for embarrassing him over this case of mistake identity so that I don’t find myself needing to persuade you.” It was Charles’ turn to be absolutely shocked. The room had gone silent, everyone holding his breath. 

Dean allowed himself a little hope. He had—well, he had not expected that.

“Apologies then, Dean,” Charles sneered. “Have a lovely night, Gentleman.” Charles turned on his heel and strode out of the room, doing his best to save face. Cas watched Charles leave, not moving until he disappeared around a corner and the room began to quietly buzz again. 

When Cas turned back to Dean, he was no longer the fierce beast who’d run Charles out of the lounge. He looked small, and tired, and broken. 

“Cas, thank you—I could have—it wouldn’t have been the first time—but thank you. And I can explain,” Dean stumbled over his words, not sure where to start. He had to fix this. 

Cas sighed. “Don’t bother. Go away, Dean.” Cas pinched the bridge of his nose as though he suddenly had a headache. “Or whatever your name is.” 

“It’s Dean. And please,” Dean whispered, grabbing the sleeve of Castiel’s coat. “Please Cas, give me a chance to explain. What he said was true, but it isn’t how it looks—“

Cas cut him off, a trace of the earlier menace creeping back. “Go. I mean it.”

Dean felt like he might choke on his own heart. “Please.”

Cas was suddenly very weary. He tugged his sleeve out of Dean’s grasp. “Then I’ll leave.” Cas wondered how it was possible to hurt so much without bleeding. Had Dean been playing him the whole time?

Cas was alone, he’d always be alone, and this was the price to be paid for being so foolish as to dare to hope otherwise. 

Dean opened his mouth. Close it. What was there to say? Everything Charles had said was true. And Dean had lied to Cas, no matter which way you cut it, it had been lies. He’d had plenty of chances to come clean and he hadn’t taken any of them. He’d hustled him, too. 

Dean deserved this far more than he’d deserved thirty-six hours of happiness. Those had been borrowed, not earned. 

“I’m sorry, Cas.” 

Dean left. 

**  
The whole terrible incident with Charles hadn’t taken very long, so Sam was still in when Dean slammed open the door and stormed back in, tearing off his coat and flinging it at the wall. His shirt followed. Sam sat on Dean’s bed and let it play out. 

Next Dean took off his shoes, throwing each of them as hard as he could. Neither seemed to have done quite enough damage.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean growled and punched the wall twice in quick succession, which was where Sam had to intervene.

“Stop it. You are going to break you hand.” 

Dean looked up, startled. He’d been so focused on his anger and self-loathing and something else, something a lot like loss, he hadn’t truly realized Sam was in the room. He took a deep breath and let it go. 

Dean set down next to Sam, heavily, his shoulders curved inward. “Your right. Sorry.”

Sam took Dean’s hand and examined it, moving the joints around, feeling for broken bones. He’d scraped it up, but was mostly unscathed.

“Your fine. Dean Winchester’s luck holds again.”

Dean laughed, bitterly, and put his head in his hands. “I’ll say.”

Sam knew better than to ask what was bothering Dean. Dean would tell him or he wouldn’t, but he’d do it at his own speed and Sam didn’t particularly want to hear Dean brush him off with _I’m fine_ in the meantime, so he just stayed where he was, silent, and knocked his knee against Dean’s, giving whatever comfort his proximity would allow.

After a few minutes Dean took a great shuddering breath and looked up. “I can be such a screw up. Make better choices than me, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t know what to make of that. As far as he was concerned Dean had done unimaginably well for himself, for both of them, against all odds and in impossible circumstances. “You aren’t—“

“I can be, believe me.” Dean shook his head and knocked his shoulder into his brother’s, trying to lighten the mood. “Not that anyone would know from looking at you.” 

Sam smiled. “Please. It had nothing to do with you. Mom and Dad just saved all the best genes for me.” 

Dean laughed, a real laugh, which five minutes ago he’d have been sure he’d never do again, and stood up. ‘Watch it, kiddo. I know where you sleep.”

“I’m not worried, my brother’s always got my back. Real ugly fellow, and he fights dirty.” 

Dean grinned. “So what were you doing in here? Why aren’t you out dancing with the girl?” 

In truth, Sam had been trying to get his hair a bit more presentable for Emily—Sam had a thing about his hair—but he wasn’t about to risk the teasing that would invite and anyway, he knew Dean wasn’t in the mood to join in and Sam didn’t quite want to leave him alone with his flask, either. 

“Eh, I’m just not feeling it tonight—leave ‘em wanting, you know? She will be twice as happy to see me tomorrow—so I was just going to read. Want me to read to you?” 

Dean knew Sam was lying through his teeth, but he took it for what it was, and he grateful for it. 

“Yeah, sure, if you want to.”

Sam climbed up to his bunk and started to read. Dean laid in his and tried not to think about anything but his brother’s voice, and the story. 

***

Sam was still at it a few hours later, his voice was starting to go a little scratchy around the edges, but he only had a few pages left, when all the sudden the ship shuddered and the ever present engine noise was replaced with a grinding, tearing sound.

Dean had been nearly asleep, but he jolted back into full consciousness, and jumped out of bed, started searching for his boots. “What the hell was that?”

“It was probably nothing, I’m sure it is fine.” Sam didn’t think that at all, was already climbing out of bed, but that was his role in these things. 

“Nothing my ass. Come on, put on your boots Sam, coat too. Let’s go see.”

He and Sam dressed quickly and made a circuit of their floor. Lots of people were in the halls, poking their heads out their doors, but no one seemed to know anything. 

But the boat wasn’t moving anymore, hadn’t started back up. Fear prickled at the back of Dean’s neck. Something was definitely wrong. 

“Go work your magic on the gate Sam. And try and get anyone you see to come with you. We are going up. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

They’d both tried, but had managed to convince almost no one to come up with them even if reports had started coming up from lower decks of water. People were too scared of breaking the rules, and anyway, most people were pretty sure that if there was a problem they’d hear about it from The White Star Line and not from a pair of fairly young American brothers. But Dean Winchester had learned long ago to trust his instincts. 

Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong. 

***

By the time they got to the deck, lifeboats were being loaded in a very orderly fashion—women and children first. No one seemed to be taking this very seriously. Yet. 

Dean had been on the boat deck before, but he hadn’t been paying to much attention to anything other than Cas which meant he hadn’t noticed quite how much space there was. Too much space.

Dean caught Sam noticing, too. He grabbed his brothers arm. “Come on, let’s have a look on the other side.”

Sam shot Dean a weak grin. “Yeah, course.”

The other deck didn’t have more boats— _of course it didn’t, why had Dean allowed himself to imagine it would?_ \--and he regretted letting his brother see that. 

_How long had it been since the sound? Thirty minutes? Forty? How much longer could they have? Two hours? Three?_ Dean leaned over the railing. The ship was definitely sitting heavier in the water towards the front. This was really bad. Next to him, Sam was gripping the rail tightly, looking pale. So Sam had noticed, too. 

Bile rose in the back of Dean’s throat. 

And there weren’t going to be enough boats, not by a long shot. _Double dose of Winchester luck tonight, huh?_

Sam swallowed. “This looks real bad.” 

Sometimes Dean wished his brother wasn’t quite so perceptive. “Can’t argue with you there.”

Dean hoped the Captain had sent someone down to third class by now. He worried he hadn’t tried hard enough to get more people to join them. At least they’d left the gate open. 

But there were people he could save and people he couldn’t. At least Sam was in the first group. 

Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam’s coat and started steering him back towards where lifeboats were being lowered. He wished he’d thought to make Sam put on his lifejacket, too. 

“Hey, let go of me. What are you doing?” Sam tried to twist out of Dean’s grip, fight his forward motion.

“Waddaya think I’m doing, dingbat? I’m putting you on a boat.” Sam froze, gasped at Dean in horror.

“That is bunk, Dean! I’m staying right here with you.” Even if Sam had had a moment to think about it, he wouldn’t have been prepared for this. Probably should have been, but the fact of the matter was never in Sam’s life had it ever occurred to him that, if Dean had any say in the matter at all, he’d chose to be anywhere but at Sam’s side, facing whatever was next, together. Like they had their whole lives. 

Dean started pulling Sam again, grateful for the pounds he still had on him. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but you are getting in a lifeboat if it kills us both.” Which was a little too close to the truth. 

Sam started to panic, fighting like a wildcat. He would not get on a boat without his brother. “Dean, get your goddam hands off me! I’m staying. The Titanic is unsinkable!”

“Sure. Completely unsinkable,” despite Sam’s refusal to cooperate, Dean had nearly managed to strong arm him all the way over to the boat. “So enjoy your boat ride and I’ll hear all about it when you get back.”

Sam stilled. “Don’t you lie to me,” his voice broke, and he choked back a sob. “Don’t do this to me. You don’t lie to me.”

Dean forced a weak smile, feeling destroyed. “Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but I lie to you all the time!”

“Not about this! Not about anything that matters. I’m just--I’m not getting on that damn boat, Dean. I’m not –“ Sam choked on the rest of his sentence. _Leaving you._ The words tasted like ash in his mouth. 

But Dean wasn’t having it. He fisted his hand in the lapels of his brother’s jacket—too light for tonight, not neatly enough, he though with a pang—and slammed him against the wall. “Let’s get just one thing straight here, Sam. You are going. Women and children first, and you are a child.”

Sam was still putting up a good fight against Dean’s grip. “I’m fifteen. You can’t make me live when other people are going to die. When you—“ Sam’s couldn’t say that, either. He swallowed hard, hoped he wouldn’t throw up. “You can’t make me.“

“Fifteen is a kid, Sammy. You have so much ahead of you! And I can’t –“ _let you die._ Dean couldn’t say it either. But that is what it was, wasn’t? Dean couldn’t let Sam die. He didn’t have it in him. But how to convince his stupid kid brother of that? “Someone has to row these people, bonehead. And you are skinny, but you are strong. They need you.”

Sam’s eyes glittered with tears. “Don’t do this to me. _I_ need _you_ , Dean." 

The officer loading the boat was making his last call. Dean had to get Sam off this ship before things got ugly. And they were going to get real ugly real fast. 

“I need you too, kiddo.” 

Tears spilled over Sam’s lashes, and his face twisted in absolute agony. 

Dean pulled Sam into a hug, closed his eyes, and hope it conveyed _I’m sorry_. And _I love you_. And _live a good life._ Sam clung to his brother, hard, and Dean could feel him shaking, coming apart at his very fittings. Dean kissed his brother on his forehead—something he hadn’t done in years-- and pulled away. Sam was never going to forgive him for this, but Dean didn’t have the luxury of worrying about that now. _Bye, Sammy._ Dean punched Sam, hard and quick in the temple, catching him before he crumpled to the ground. 

“One more kid, Officer.” Dean hauled his brother over the lifeboat and placed him next to a nice looking woman huddling with two kids. 

“Can you look after my brother, ma’am? Slap him a few times when you hit the water and he ought to come ‘round.” She looked startled but nodded. “His name is Sam,” Dean added, his throat tightening. “And uh, tell him I’m sorry okay?” 

Sam was never going to forgive Dean—he was going to see this as the ultimate double-cross—but at least he would be alive. Get a chance to grow up and read more books and maybe meet a nice girl and settle down. Alive and mad was better than dead any day. 

Sam was going to be okay, and that is what mattered. Dean could face anything as long as he knew Sam was going to be okay. 

Dean shrugged off his coat, filling the pockets with their father’s pocket watch which Dean had never sold, even when he should have and kept running as a sort of talisman, the cross he usually wore around his neck—the one Sam had given him as a kid--and all the money he’d gone back to get out of the lining of his suitcase-- _it would have to do_ \-- and tucked the coat around his brother before stepping back off. 

He thought wildly, _dying would be so much easier than this._

Dean helped them lower the boat. He’d done the right thing, he knew he had, even if Sam went to the grave never forgiving him, but every inch tore another piece out his heart. 

It was done. Sam was safe. 

But Dean had one more thing he had to do to get right with God before the end. He had to find Cas.


	6. April 15th

Dean turned, on autopilot now and headed towards Cas’ room, so damn grateful he’d noted the way. The ship was listing now, almost imperceptibly. Dean wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it. 

Dean gave into his fear and raced down the stairs, skidded to a stop in front of Cas’ door and pounded on it, all sense of decorum gone.

“Cas, open up. It’s me. It’s important. Open up.” A steward gave him a look, started coming towards him when Cas opened the door, and yanked Dean inside, smiling—equal turns thrilled and relieved really, telling Dean to leave had felt like a mistake almost immediately--but it slid right off when he saw Dean’s face.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Somehow Dean wasn’t all that surprised that Cas could read him so well.

“No. I’m—“ Dean swallowed, twice, reigned himself back in. “The ship is going down, Cas. I don’t know what happened but the ship is going down.”

Which was impossible-- and not now, not in the middle of all Cas' Christmases coming at once, “The ship can’t be—“

“It is going down Cas. And there won’t be enough boats. I don’t think anyone knows that yet but-- I was just up there.”

“Jesus. Dean.” Cas crossed to the couch to sit and Dean followed him. “Are you sure?”

Dean hadn’t ever been quite so sure of anything in his life. He nodded “ We got at least an hour, maybe two. I put Sam in a boat. Stupid kid didn’t want to go, so I punched him. Knocked him out cold and he’ll never forgive me for it, but I put him in a boat.” Dean’s voice cracked and he hated himself for it. He’d made his peace with it, damn it he had. 

Cas studied Dean's face. _So this was how it ends, then. Here and with this man._ "Okay."

"Okay?," Dean exploded, fear and sorrow and hopelessness and everything he'd swallowed on the boat deck, held back from Sam, turning into anger, misdirected, but something easier to digest. He rose and began pacing the room, suddenly furious. "Damn it, Cas. _Okay?_ Someone tells you your are going to die, and you just trust them on it? Just take it at face value, and _okay_?"

Cas stared at him. "Not _someone_ , Dean, _you_." 

Which somehow made it worse. Dean scrubbed his hands down his face. "Exactly! Someone with a history of lying to you. Jesus. _Okay._ " 

Enough. Cas crossed to Dean. "What, you want me to fight you on it? Like that would do something? Change anything? Well sorry. You say it's over and I believe you. You put Sam on a boat--" Dean felt the words tear through him, wondered how many times he'd have to feel saying goodbye to Sam all over again, "and that is enough for me. I trust you. So fine, it's the end. And I should probably be more upset about that but ultimately I'm guess mostly I'm just glad to see you."

Dean felt it viscerally, everything draining away. Dean grabbed Cas, kissed him like it was the only thing holding him together, which wasn't too far off the mark.

“I’m sorry Cas, I'm so sorry about earlier—I know I should have told you, last night at least, but I guess I just didn’t want you to think any less of me. Which was stupid and shortsighted because I want you to know me, Cas. The real me. Dean Winchester, the one who is nearly always broke and puts food on the table hustling cards and who got run out of London for –“

And Cas hadn't even needed the apology, not really. He wrapped his arms around Dean's neck and pulled him in for a deeper kiss and Dean surprised him, picked him up. Cas wrapped his legs around Dean's waist and Dean turned, braced them both against the wall, and licked into Cas' mouth. Cas raked his hands through Dean's hair. 

An ashtray slid of the table and crashed to the floor. 

_Last night on earth,_ Cas thought.

No reason to be careful about bruises now, Dean sucked on Cas' neck-- he could mark Cas as his for the whole damn world—and nipped at his earlobe and Cas went wild. He tore off his own shirt, buttons rolling on the floor, but if Dean was right it wasn't like he'd need it again, and pulled Dean's shirt over his head. Castiel traced his tongue over Dean's collar bone, licked the hollow at the base of his throat. Dean carried him to the bed and tossed him on top of it and they both let the world fall away. 

**

They lay, panting and wrecked and Cas thought, nearly happily, _everyone should be lucky enough to spend their last hours like this_. If death was his punishment, if damnation was to greet him instead of dawn, well, it had been worth it.

Dean traced Cas' ribs with a finger, lingering over a long thin scar down his side and he thought _more time, a little more time and I'd have learned what this was from, I'd have learned everything about you_. But there was a slant to the room now. 

Dean sat up and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do, Cas. Usually I have a plan, something but— what do we do?" 

_What was there to do?,_ Cas thought. But Dean was already out of bed, gathering his clothes.

"I can't just be passive, welcome death," Dean continued, pulling on his pants, "I don't have it in me and I'll go mad Cas, I'm sure I will, and that isn't who I want to be when the lights go out."

Cas watched him and frowned. "Well, would you rather freeze to death or drown?" 

Dean gaped at him, a boot dangling from his fingers. "Neither, Cas. Neither. Jesus. I meant, let's do something, let's survive. Let's give ourselves two thousand more happy days. Boats have to be on their way."

Cas' chest wrenched. There was nothing he wouldn't give.... but yet, "Dean that it is highly improbable. That water is freezing. And if a ship was close enough to save us before we froze to death, you’d have see their lights while you were up on the deck. 

Dean ran a hand over his face. He'd known this, of course he had-- he wasn't stupid, and it was why he'd forced Sammy into the boat-- but it was one thing to know deep down and a whole different thing to hear out loud. "Quite the optimist aren't you?" Cas titled his head. "I'm kidding." Dean let out a long breath. "So what do you think, drown or freeze to death?"

"Drown. It would be quicker." Cas didn't even have to think about it. Perhaps the only benefit to having spent time suicidal was having already done all his "best ways to die" thinking. 

It had been more like fantasizing than thinking, really. Which felt wrong now, when he’d have made any deal with God to even be allowed even one more day with Dean. 

"All right, I guess I don't feel all that particular about it. That is our plan then. Drown it is!" Dean felt something vital come unmoored in him.

Cas watched Dean’s face break, couldn’t abide it. _Fine._ if Dean needed hope, Cas could give him that, never mind what it would cost. "No, we will do it your way. Try to survive.

"You sure, Cas? I mean, you weren't wrong. About it being," Dean looked away, swallowed, "unlikely. Probably wouldn’t be quick, either.”

“It most assuredly won’t be.” Cas said, simply. But it would be a few more minutes with Dean, which wasn't nothing. And Dean would probably hold his hand. It would be enough. 

“I know it’s stupid, and improbable—I do--but I’d like to try. Sam’s out there and I know he will never know, but it would mean something to him to have me try.” 

“I know,” Cas said, simply. "I'm in."

Dean looked down, toyed with the fringe on a pillow. “And uh, it would mean something important to me to have you try, too.” Which Cas hadn’t been expecting. He hadn’t known Dean very long, but he knew what it meant to be lumped in with Sam. “Try for me, Cas, okay? If we have to go down, let’s go down swinging, together."

There was perhaps nothing Cas wouldn’t do, nothing he wouldn't give Dean, if Dean asked. 

**

Sam came to slowly. His head hurt and a voice he didn’t know was singing a lullaby he didn’t recognize. He sat up abruptly, startling the person next to him. 

 

“Are you all right?,” she asked kindly. She was wrapped in a fur coat, two children wrapped in blankets beside her. She’d been the one singing.

 

“Where—how—“ he glances around wildly, his heart in his throat. _A boat. Dean had gotten him in a goddamn boat. It wasn’t—he couldn’t_ — he stood up. 

 

“I have to go back.” There was a man rowing, dressed in a White Star Line uniform. “Sir, there has been a mistake, I have to go back.” 

“We aren’t going back kid. Sit down.”

“You don’t understand. The ship is going to go down! And my brother he tricked me and—“ Sam took in the faces around him, drawn and frightened.

He was scaring them. 

He was _really_ scaring them. He sat down. “Sorry. I hit my head. Earlier. I was confused.” 

Sam pulled his knees up to his chest, only now registering he had Dean’s coat, in addition to his own. He sucked in a breath, sharp and hurt.

 

The woman he was sitting next to patted his arm, gently. “The man who put you in the boat, your brother?,” Sam nodded, “he, um, he said to tell you he was sorry.” _Goddamn you, Dean._

 

Sam watched the ship sink a little further, tried very hard not to come completely apart.

 

**

Cas dressed quickly, shirt untucked, noticed Dean was just in shirtsleeves. “Can I lend you a coat?”

Dean nodded. “That would be great, thanks. I gave mine to Sam.” _Of course you did,_ Cas thought fondly. _That is exactly who you are._

Cas pulled them each coats from the closet, and noticed there was a life vest sitting at the top, but only one, so he left it. He was quite sure there was no universe where Dean would wear one if Cas was not, and Cas didn’t want that at all. 

Something crashed in the distance.

“Do you think we ought to go up top now?,” Cas asked. He didn't want to leave the room, could have died here wrapped around Dean something close to happily. But he'd promised Dean, and he hadn’t heard any voices in the halls in a while. 

Dean stood up and rubbed the back of his neck, put Cas’ coat on. “Yeah, probably.”

**

The boat deck was a mass of confusion and panic, and nearly ever lifeboat was already gone. They’d heard something explode deep within the ship when they’d come up the stairs. 

It was worse than Cas had imagined, all chaos and hysteria and he was trying very very hard not to panic. Dean’s shoulders and jaw were set in a very tight line as they picked their way up the deck. They could make out life boats in the distance and Dean’s shoulders tightened, he though _Sam, Sam hates me_ before he cut off that train of thought--- nothing useful led that way and he'd forced Cas up here, owed it to him to keep it together. Dean’s hand found Cas’ and Cas squeezed it and Dean was absurdly grateful. 

_Save us both,_ he thought, _I've got to save us both._ Dean pushed back at his fear. 

“What’s your favorite memory, Dean?

Dean looked at Cas, surprised and then smiled. Cas saw him relax the tiniest bit. Good. “Little nothing moments, really. Christmas, 1905. I borrowed some ice skates and took Sam skating—it was the first time I’d seen him smile, a real smile, not that stupid one he’d put on for my benefit sometimes—since Dad had died. It was great. It finally felt like everything was going to be okay, you know.” Cas smiled. “Or maybe my birthday this year. I was never much for birthdays but Sam got a bee in his bonnet about it and decided he was going to make me a gooseberry pie. I don’t know where he got the idea that he could bake, but we were finally staying somewhere with a working oven, if you could call it that, and bless him he tried. He oughtta have just nicked one--I’m certain he nicked the berries, and probably everything else too, though he wouldn’t admit it—and I came home to the whole flat filled with smoke and the thing was a little burnt and so sweet it made your teeth hurt. Best birthday I ever had.” Dean smiled at Cas, bigger. “I had some pretty nice moments on this ship too.” 

“Me too,” Cas squeezed Dean’s hand again. “All my favorite ones really. You made me happy. I'd chose to die in every life as long as I could still have these few days."

A firework—no a distress signal, Cas corrected himself—burst overhead and they both watched the sparks fall. Someone was sobbing in the distance. 

It was getting harder to keep their footing. Dean snaked his arm around Cas, pulling him closer, and wrapped the other around a piece of pipe. 

“Hey Cas?,” Dean’s voice caught, “I’m real glad I met you. I wish it had been under different circumstances, but I’m glad I met you.” 

"Me too, Dean." Dean pulled Cas into him. 

They were both really very scared. 

Water was washing over the the front of the boat now and Cas wishes he could have saved them both the sight. 

Cas kissed Dean, hard, and never wanted to stop. _Let the last thing he taste be Dean, let Dean have his last breath._ Cas gave in, decided to be at peace with it all. They weren't going to survive, it was impossible-- the water was too cold and rescue too far away-- no one left on the boat was going to survive, but fine. _A few more moments with Dean’s arms around him, Deans lips on his lips, those were worth freezing to death, the additional terror._

Cas closed his eyes and Dean kiss both of his eyelids as another burst of sparks shattered overhead and Cas thought _for me it can be fireworks_.

The lights flickered.

**

It would only be minutes now, but Dean hadn't given up yet. He'd told Cas they'd survive and he aimed to do it. He'd make Sam understand why he'd forced him on the boat against his will-- and Sam would come around, he'd have to, and he wouldn't be mad, not when Dean fought his way back-- and the three of them could carve out some sort of life together. He hadn't brought Cas up here for nothing. 

There was a commotion down the deck, several men working on something. 

Cas had his head on Dean's shoulder and was humming something soft and sweet under his breath. Dean nudged him.

"Hey Cas, what are they doing?"

Cas squinted. "Trying to get something off the roof, I think. A collapsible boat maybe?"

 _Perfect._ It felt like a sign. A wave of relief washed through Dean. "Come on, let's go help."

It meant giving up the high ground they'd managed and that part of the boat was already under some water, quickly rising, but Cas followed. Cas would follow Dean anywhere. 

Dean grit his teeth, swore, as he waded into the freezing water. Reached for Cas' hand again. 

The men had been working on a boat, six or seven, struggling to get it untied and Dean climbed on the roof and pulled Cas up, grinning manically. Against all odds and they were saved. Another sunrise to be seen."See Cas? Always hope."

Dean pulled the knife from his boot and they began working at the knots. The water was rising, but they almost had it loose. Water was starting to run where they were standing when Dean sliced through the last rope. They'd just flipped the boat over when something ripped from the ship-- a smokestack-- and crashed into the water, sending a wave over them all. 

Dean's feet were swept out from under him and Cas saw him fall, hit his head on the corner of the boat and Cas thought maybe he saw blood but it was so fast and then Dean was gone, underwater, and Cas and the boat and everyone with them were washed overboard before Cas could react. 

Neither of them were wearing life jackets. 

Cas came up gasping, the water so cold his lungs didn't want to work, and there were people everywhere and not one of them was Dean.

Titanic was straight up in the air now and all Cas could hear was screaming. 

Cas kicked off his shoes-- they weren't doing anything but dragging him down, now, and swam in circles looking for a familiar blonde head, screaming for Dean, but he wasn't anywhere, and Cas knew. 

Cas had known even before he started looking, had felt it like something ripping in his chest.

Dean probably hadn't come back up for air. 

He'd probably been unconscious.

And Cas wanted to give up, just stop swimming, no one would know, but he'd promised and he couldn't-- _it had been nearly the last thing_ , he thought desperately, like maybe if he kept his word he'd get a reprieve-- so he swam towards the lifeboat they'd helped free instead, now floating overturned several yards away, and held on. 

**

Sam made himself watch as the lights went off, the ship cracked, and it slipped under the waves, his heart seizing in his chest, beating wildly _Dean Dean_. 

Sam felt himself shatter, knew he’d never find all the pieces again.

**

A lifeboat had come back and Castiel had been pulled in, wrapped in a dry blanket, and it hadn't felt like being saved at all.

Onboard the Carpathia they told Castiel he'd get to keep his toes and his feet besides and he thought _take them, take them all. What use is anything if Dean isn’t alive?_

And Dean was dead, Cas had known it the moment he hit the water.

But Sam was alive, or should be, heartbroken and orphaned a third time over and though there was nothing Cas could do about that—if only he could, he’d make a trade for Dean in a heartbeat, without thinking about it—but he could do something. He’d keep Dean’s brother fed, give him a home, watch out for him. He tell Sam how proud Dean had been when he’d talked about him, and how he’d fought so hard to make it through and back to him, how Dean had done his absolute damnedest. 

It wouldn’t be enough, not nearly—Sam’s grief had to be a hundred thousand times worse than Cas’; Cas had only known Dean a few days and still felt eviscerated, his whole world emptied out—but it would nearly almost be something.


End file.
